Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (carter reed .txt) 📕

dock was two feet below the level of the ferry landing. She jumped down and was at the Jet Capsule in four strides. The screech of fiberglass rubbing against the dock assaulted her ears with the same effect as grating fingernails across a chalkboard.

She untied the bow and stern lines, then entered through the aft bulkhead hatch and hurried to the instrument cluster and wheel. A polished chrome key was inserted into the panel. She lowered her weapon to the deck and took the solitary seat centered in front of the large bubble-like canopy. She turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life with a throaty growl. The instruments were basic. Gauges indicated engine temperature, oil pressure, and fuel level. Plus, there was a T-handle at the side that she assumed was the throttle. She pushed it forward and the craft began to accelerate, rubbing the dock as it moved. She turned the wheel to port, and the Jet Capsule moved in the same direction.

Once clear of the dock, and with the island receding behind, she turned on the in-dash radio. She knew the marine VHF international distress frequency was 156.8 MHz, more commonly known as channel 16. The Coast Guard constantly monitored channel 16, as did the San Francisco Police.

She pointed the small launch southwest, aiming straight for the middle of the San Francisco Bay Bridge, and ran up the throttle to the stop. With the water jet propelling the boat at its maximum speed of thirty-five knots, she keyed the radio and spoke into the microphone.

“Pan-pan. Pan-pan. Pan-pan. Coast Guard Station San Francisco.”

She released the mic button, ready to repeat the call if it wasn’t immediately answered. But it was.

“This is Coast Guard Station San Francisco. Over.”

She keyed the mic. “Coast Guard, the hostage situation on Alcatraz is over. Hostages are free. I repeat. Hostages are free.”

“This is Coast Guard. Who the hell is on this frequency? This is for emergencies only.”

“The threat is clear, Coast Guard. Send in some boats. You have a couple hundred people who really want to go home.”

“This is Coast Guard. Who’s on this frequency? Over.”

“A concerned citizen.”

“Are you calling from Alcatraz? Are you one of the hostages?”

She paused to organize her thoughts. She was still figuring out her plan, trying to anticipate and stay ahead of the unfolding events.

Yes, this could work to my favor. “Yes. I’m one of the prisoners. I’m on the island.”

“Are you okay? Is anyone harmed?”

“I don’t…”

Images flashed in her mind of the three children in the courtyard, their tender bodies ripped by gunfire. Then she recalled other images, scenes of small bodies, burned and torn by a tremendous explosion. The burned-out hulk of a school bus.

“Yes. Some school children were shot by the terrorists. Also, an elderly woman. I don’t know about anyone else.”

“Roger that. Can you provide the location of the terrorists? Are they still armed?”

She knew that as long as the authorities believed the island was well-defended, they wouldn’t approach directly. Eventually, they’d come up with a plan to insert a military special ops team, probably by submersible, and certainly at night. But it could take hours, maybe even a couple days to get the men and equipment together, and approval for the strike. The children needed medical help immediately. Maybe others, too.

“Listen, Coast Guard. The threat has been neutralized. The tangos have been eliminated. Hostages are free. Medical help is urgently needed. Over.”

“This is Coast Guard. Message received. What is your name, ma’am? Are you military?”

“Never mind who I am. Just send help.”

She turned off the radio. She had more important things to do, and she needed to focus.

The Bay Bridge was rapidly receding behind her, and the Oakland Inner Harbor opened up before her. The channel was about five-hundred-feet wide—plenty of room for passing ferries, blue-water freighters, and private yachts. The Alameda Main Street Ferry Terminal was about a quarter-mile ahead on the right. She angled in close to shore and eased back a little on the throttle.

Earlier in the day, she had parked her truck alongside Main Street, next to a dog park, since the terminal parking lot was full when she and Toby had boarded the ferry for San Francisco. Now, she was grateful for that stroke of luck.

She pointed the launch directly to the bank. Maintaining full engine throttle, the fiberglass hull shot up onto the shallow, rocky bank before coming to rest. After turning off the engine, she looped the sling of the MP5 over her shoulder and departed through the stern hatch, traversing to the bow, and then hopped onto dry land. A hundred feet across a vacant lot was her pickup, and she covered that distance in record time. She didn’t know if law enforcement had spotted the Jet Capsule leaving Alcatraz. But if they had, it would be easy to follow it.

The traffic flowing by on Main Street was light, and no one seemed to notice her weapon. She unlocked the extended-cab truck and stashed the submachine gun behind the rear seat next to her combat tomahawk and SIG Sauer P226 pistol. The extra MP5 magazines were secured in a pouch on the seatback.

She took a deep breath as she sat behind the wheel. She wasn’t free and clear yet, and she needed to quickly melt away into the traffic. If a drone or manned aircraft was overhead surveilling her, she could still be cornered by police cars.

Fighting the temptation to floor the gas pedal and get away as fast as possible, she instead eased onto Main Street and merged in with the flow of traffic. The GPS app on her phone was set to guide her back to Hatfield, on the Oregon-California border. Although that wasn’t her immediate destination, it would suffice to get her out of the Bay Area. Once on the interstate, she could think and refine her plan—which wasn’t much of a plan at all.

She focused on being anonymous, blending in with the other drivers as she followed the GPS directions.